


Masks, And The People Who Wear Them

by TheFamousFireLadyM



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: #give Jacob a dog 2K18, Fix-It of Sorts, Frottage, Gen, Hand Jobs, M/M, No one dies au but tweaked, Post walk away ending, Therapy, nonbinary deputy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-13 16:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15368130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFamousFireLadyM/pseuds/TheFamousFireLadyM
Summary: The Seeds were dead. Hope County was saved. Still, senior deputy Staci Pratt is haunted by the spectre of Jacob Seed wherever he turns.





	1. Chapter 1

It's seven months after the end of the media circus that was Edens Gate. Joseph Seed was killed during a stand off with the US Marshals five days after the Hope County sheriff's department left the area. Faith Seed was gunned down by junior deputy Jones after taking US Marshal Cameron Burke hostage. The brothers, Jacob and John were declared missing and on the run after it was discovered John Seed’s personal plane was missing. One month after that, after combing the land for the ultimate deathcount, the wreckage of John Seed’s plane was found in the Whitetail Mountains. Two bodies were found, later identified as Jacob Seed, and John Seed. Each of the deputies received three months paid leave and received court mandated counseling. At the end of that third month, Senior Deputy Staci Pratt turned in his badge and left the state. He has not been in contact with any of his old coworkers, except one; the hero of Hope County, Deputy Jones.

 

* * *

 

 

“I saw Jacob Seed today.” Staci says into the phone, voice low, a forbidden whisper. He knows how paranoid he sounds. There's a pause on the other end. A tense one. Then Deputy Jones sighs. He can hear the worry in their voice, a tenuous beat, a wobble he can't escape.

“Have you been going to therapy?”

Pratt knows that he hasn't, that no matter how much group therapy, how much he talks to some court-ordered state-supplied shrink that what happened at Eden’s Gate would never fade to a distant albeit _unpleasant_ memory.

“You know they're all dead. They pulled Jacob Seed’s remains from the plane wreckage, remember? Why would a dead man be in Colorado?”

“I know.” Pratt brushes an errant hair from his eyes, adamant. “He seemed so normal, just out doing normal person stuff.”

“You must have seen somebody else, who maybe looked like him, or your mind played tricks on you.”

“I know what I saw.”

“What you thought you saw.”

Pratt knows he won't get anywhere with this conversation, so he lets it go. “You're right. I'm sorry. I must have been tired--”

“It's okay,” Jones says, and doesn't mean it. “Maybe you should make an appointment with your doctor again.”

* * *

 

 

 _He does not talk about Hope County. He talks about his father, about his brothers, about faith. About Faith. About the barn. About the war. Lies to her face, tells her he had a dog once. Peaches. Tells her how he loved that dog, treated it better than anything, and that after he was deployed the dog never saw him again, how it must think he abandoned it. She thinks on it, then tactfully responds: “_ Dogs don't live that long. _”_

 _He answers, gaze sliding to his shoes, beat up work boots, secondhand already when he received them; the only souvenir of Eden’s Gate he couldn't bear to part with. “_ Right _.”_

_What he doesn't tell her weighs on his conscience. Fleeting memories of showering in the dark. Soft hands, not calloused from hard labor the way his were, scrubbing sweet smelling soap from his hair, hands on his shoulders, his jaw. Waking up beside him. His shadow. Peaches._

_It was John who told him about the clinic, in all respects. And here he sits, one visit out of thousands he's made and will continue to make. He reaches up for his tags but his hand only finds air, and his rumpled shirt collar. It was one of the casualties of Hope County, immolated with the rest of the poor soldiers John whipped into a frenzy enough to take their places on the plane. John had sabotaged the engine, and the plane went down somewhere in the mountains. He remembers hearing it on the radio as they drove through the state border. Seed Family Perishes, no survivors._

_Still though, he misses the comfort his tags brought. But he knows he's better off without the trappings of that life, no matter how many times he’ll catch a whiff of a certain shampoo and instantly imagine the hands of a younger man all over his body, knees buckling like he's a teenager again._

* * *

Pratt sees the therapist. She's kind, but no nonsense. He feels like he could tell her everything. But he doesn't. He can't tell her how he wakes up, sweating, _aching_ , vision tinged with red, hearing that song in his head three days out of every week, burning up for the touch of a man he hates more than anything else. He doesn't tell her how he's been seeing Jacob Seed, _the_ Jacob Seed out and about, everywhere he goes.   
  
He spots Jacob Seed out one night before going to the therapist. Just across the street,  walking along the sidewalk, collar up against the winter chill, like a normal person. That's him. It's Jacob Seed, inexplicably him. His hair is dark. Must be a dye job. And his clothing is much less ragged, more expensive looking. But it's unmistakable. No one else has that scarring, the feel of it under Pratt's fingertips just one more thing that haunts him at night. Pratt follows him one night. He stays just far enough away that Seed doesn't see him. He shops, the way a normal person would, except it's him. He's no normal person.

* * *

 

Weeks go by without incident. Up until the day Staci get a bill in the mail addressed to someone else. He takes it to the clinic.

“E. Pratt?” Staci asks, waving the envelope he had received in the mail. The receptionist looks mortified. “Mr. Pratt, I'm so sorry. It looks like there's been a mistake with the files. I'm so glad you didn't open it. It's for one of Dr. O’Neil’s other patients.”

“Do you mind if I ask who?”

“I can't exactly tell you. HIPAA violations and all that,” she begins, fingers spreading across the keys. Pratt is momentarily distracted by the shine of her nails. Her name tag says _Annie_ with a heart dotting the i. “But you really saved my buns bringing this back, so I guess I can just give you some deets. Just what I figure from looking at him. He's, um. His name’s Elijah, he was in the army or something, it looks like. Really big, _really_ handsome. No wedding ring either. Lives close, I think. He's in almost every day. Group therapy, one on one, you name it. Its like he's paying the bills for this place. He probably got your bill by mistake.” 

It's nothing but gossip, really, but it's enough to pique his interest.

“There's a combat veterans’ support group meeting here tomorrow. He's never missed one of those yet. You can ask him about it then. You can't miss him. He’ll be the only one with a support dog.”

As soon as he gets home Pratt calls the deputy. 

“There's a, uh, combat ptsd support meeting tonight. My therapist wants me to go.” He lies.

“That sounds really good for you, Stace.” The deputy says that, and something in Pratt is rattled by the way Jones says his name. He finds himself telling Deputy Jones about the billing mixup, how there's somebody else with his last name, how supposedly this mystery man is very handsome, and very tall, and it all comes out in a rush. He realizes, at that point, he sounds very lonely. And he is. Alone in a new town as far from Hope County as he could get.

When Jones hangs up, Pratt hauls the yellow pages out of its dusty place on his shelf.

He looks up every Pratt in the phone book. It isn't hard. He only finds two. E. Pratt, S. Pratt. Staci recognizes the second as his own number, but the first he traces with his finger, before dialing slowly. His hand shakes, but he’s not sure why he’s so nervous. He’ll just ask to meet the handsome stranger, switch out their bills, maybe take him for coffee. Test the waters, so to speak. The cell is hot, pressed against his ear as it rings and rings and rings.

Then it picks up;

“Hello?”

He knows that voice. _He knows that voice_. It's as if all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

“Who is this?”

It's haunted him, sang to him in his dreams. Pratt can’t bring himself to say anything, throat clicking dryly, uselessly, before he hangs up, hoping to God he didn't have caller-id.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It's later in the evening when Staci arrives, whole body trembling. He can't seem to walk straight, and each step he takes is hesitant. Outside is dark and cold, but inside is just as cold,  judging by the stares he gets as they all look at him, the sound of the door opening echoing through the atrium.

The man turns. So does everyone else. Staci feels like he shouldn't be there for one brief moment, but every doubt, every fear is blown away by the feeling of his heart plummeting to the very base of his stomach when his blue eyes meet Pratt’s. 

“Please,  _ take a seat.”  _ A calm voice from somewhere on his left speaks up. He looks, and there's Dr. O’Neil, mediating and leading the meeting. 

His fingers numbly close around the back of the folding chair, and he takes a seat. Across the circle, Jacob Seed is staring at him. Annie wasn't kidding. He dwarfs the chair, a well-groomed white American Bulldog at his feet, panting quietly. One leg is outstretched, lazily, like he’s made himself comfortable. The dog yawns, and he reaches down to pet it, calm it, eyes like the morning sky never leaving Pratt's face. 

They go around the circle, each of them giving their names. Jacob Seed hesitates, throat working. Staci can see the way he swallows, before stating his name to be Elijah. When he looks back at Staci once more, he wears something that looks like fear on his face. Staci isn't sure but he probably mirrors it. 

Pratt tells them about Hope County when the circle comes back around to him. He talks about Jacob Seed, about the vets’ hospital. He does not say a single word about the nights Jacob could not sleep, lying awake holding him til the first rays of morning, but the way Jacob Seed is staring at him, he knows. He knows that Staci knows. He knows that Staci remembers.

Jacob Seed stands, and the breath in Pratt's lungs freezes there. 

Jacob is just as tall as he remembers, and the way he lumbers out of the room is distracting enough, his gait predatory, without the dog trotting beside him. The doors swing shut after him, and Staci shifts for a few moments, stewing in his own thoughts as everyone tries to pretend he didn't just leave. The meeting disbands soon after, as if Jacob departing has put a big enough damper on the night. Pratt finds himself tracing Jacob steps and heading outside. 

Out there, leaning on the steps, is Jacob, illuminated faintly by the cherry glow of a cigarette. The streetlight bump behind him throws everything into an unnatural orange light, and throws Jacobs face into darkness, the shadow giving him a sinister air, his dog curled up by his feet.

Elijah Pratt. Elijah  _ Pratt.  _ Staci’s heart is hammering in his chest, and he can't feel his fingers as they close around the freezing railing but it doesn't matter, he's only out there for one thing. “You took my  _ name _ . Was getting in my head not good enough for you?” 

Jacob lifts the cigarette to his lips, gaze still. The city lights reflect off his eyes, off the icy railing beneath his folded arms. Staci can't help but notice he looks good, and that thought jolts him more than anything else. “Why are you here? Why couldn't you just let me go?” 

“I didn't find you on purpose, if that's what you're asking.” 

Jacob visibly relaxes. 

The first damn thing that escapes Pratt's mouth is a tiny disbelieving voice: “I thought you were dead. Jones told me you were dead,  _ everyone  _ thinks you're dead.” 

“Jacob Seed  _ is _ dead.” His voice is flat as his fingers fix around Staci’s forearm, reaching out without looking, his thumb closing in on his pulse. “Died in a plane crash just shy of the county line. ‘S what the media reported. That's what the police said.”  Jacob takes a drag, and lets it out through his teeth as he speaks again: “Sacrificed himself for the good of Eden’s Gate, for all that was worth.”

Pratt debates with himself for a good few seconds before he mutters under his breath three aching words.

“I missed you.” 

Jacob's expression falters, and he drops Staci’s arm like it burns, all but throwing it back. 

“You don't miss me, you miss  _ Jacob Seed _ , what Jacob Seed did to you. Why don't you go back home to whoever is waiting for your pretty little face and leave me alone?” 

“There's nobody else. It's you. It's  _ only you _ .” Pratt's face is hot despite the chill.

Jacob freezes at that. Pratt takes that moment to peel back his collar with careful fingers, turned toward the wind, partially hiding his scars. Jacob doesn't do a damn thing to stop him so he inhales quietly, considering his next choice of action, before pressing his lips to Jacob's in a hesitant kiss. 

J acob doesn't respond really, not at first, but something in his gaze softens. He’s still staring out at the city, not looking at him. Somehow that hurts worse than if Jacob would just _ look _ at him.   


Staci’s fingers, gloved in the cold, brush his chin. Jacob's fingers, not gloved, close around his hand and pull it back from his face. He doesn't seem to let go of Pratt's hand, fingers flexing around it. He's weighing his options.

Pratt whispers to him; “I'm not going to rat you out.” 

But Jacob doesn't relax. Instead, he leans in and kisses him back. Pratt's fingers close around his jaw, pulling him in. 

“You called me, didn't you?” Jacob asks, when his breath returns, and Pratt doesn't hold back. 

“There was a mix up at the clinic.” He forces his hand into his pocket and fishes out the envelope. “I got a bill for E. Pratt by mistake.” 

Jacob is afraid. He's terrified. What are the goddamn odds. He lets out a slow breath, steam billowing up like smoke. His cigarette drops from between his fingers anyway, crushed underfoot. “Didn't think there were so few Pratts in Boulder.”

Staci doesn't answer; he can't even bring himself to open his mouth.  But he doesn't have to. Jacob fills the silence anyway.

“You know, I'm aware I don't deserve your forgiveness. I'm not asking for it.” He turns to look to Staci, regarding him carefully. “I've done some very awful shit, and I'm not saying I didn't. You have every right to hate me the way you do.”

Something burns in Staci’s chest, and he isn't sure if it's hate or fear, or something else. Something deeper. “I don't know if it's hate.” 

“You should hate me.” Jacob shakes his head. “Your sense of preservation is still just as garbage as it was in Montana.” 

That gets a quiet sound out of Pratt. “I lived, though, didn't I? More than I can say about the rest of your family.” 

Jacob’s expression tightens for a moment and he knows he got to him. “It's getting cold out. Do you have anywhere else to be tonight?” 

“Why?” Pratt finds himself asking, shaking again, and this time he thinks it might actually be the cold.

“There's something I need to show you. No tricks.” 

And it's with trepidation and a flutter of excitement in his belly that Staci accepts an invitation to his home by the one that once was Jacob Seed.


	3. Chapter 3

Jacob cracks the door open to let Staci inside and the bull pushes past, trotting leisurely to sit beside a ratty looking armchair. He gets down on one stiff knee to take her harness off, and the instant he does, she lies down with a huff, chin on her large paws. He gives her a good scratch behind the ears, focusing entirely on her. “That's Hera for you. Lazy girl.”

“You live here?” The blinds are closed, but through the curtains he can see the clinic's sign lit up across the street.

“You sound surprised.” Jacob stands up, letting out a quiet grunt.

“No, I--” he's looking around. “A big change from the veterans building.”

Jacob takes a breath, but Staci doesn't hear him release it. He's kicking off his work boots, next to a pair of antique looking snake leather cowboy boots. It catches him unawares. Jacob doesn't look the type to wear something like that. He doesn't call attention to it, just in case.

It is with gentle hands Jacob closes his grip on Pratt. It's as if he's afraid Staci will vanish in a puff of smoke, or shy away like a scared animal. But it's Jacob who shies away. He's terrified. Pratt can see it in his face, the way his palms only settle for brief intervals before alighting elsewhere.

It's Pratt who wrenches his coat from his shoulders, hands exploring the scars he missed, the ones that dip just under the loose collar of his undershirt. Pratt who gets him into an armchair, a knee canting just close enough between his spread legs. It's Staci who climbs atop his lap, one knee between Jacob's thighs, the other caught just between his leg and the chair edge. Staci who cups his cheeks in both hands and kisses him, searching for _something_ in his kiss. Jacob lets him, falls into the rhythm of giving and taking, the way Staci is rocking into the kiss like waves onto sand. Jacob allows Pratt to pull back when he has taken what he wants. He bows his head into the crook of Pratt's neck, breathing in the fruity shampoo smell of Staci’s hair.

“If this is just a dream, don't let it end so soon.” Staci whispers, and Jacob feels his fingers trawl through the hair on the back of his head. Long since grown in, dyed dark brown, but his roots are still the same as always.

Jacob wants to ask if he usually dreams about him, about Eden’s Gate, but he knows it's an answer it wouldn't be wise for him to hear. Pratt's fingers are tearing their way under his shirt, nails digging into the ragged fibers his undershirt was made of. He pries the button down open, off Jacob's  shoulders, and his hands find home at the narrow rise of Jacob’s hips, the heather thermal the only thing between Staci’s hands and Jacob's skin.

“Don't,” Jacob hisses, and Staci does not work his hands under the ragged cloth, to feel his muscles and scars. No matter how much he tries, he can't put a picture to the feeling of Jacob's naked body under his hands. It was something he'd never seen. Instead, Pratt's mouth never pulls back too distantly, even as he blindly gropes for the edges of jacob's fly. It pops open under his fingers easily, and in a heartbeat Pratt's hand is delving under the waistband of his boxers, closing around his cock. Jacob's head rolls back against his shoulders, a moan more gravel than voice escaping him as soon as Staci’s fist squeezes around it.

“Like this,” Pratt breathes, twisting and running his hand down the length, drawing him to hardness, movements practiced.

“Yeah,” Jacob growls, hips twitching toward his touch. “Just like that. You're a fast learner.”

Staci opens his mouth to comment on where exactly he learned what Jacob likes, but instead he captures Jacob's mouth with his own, and his hand slows, tongue working over every familiar yet unfamiliar surface of the interior of Jacob's mouth. Jacob whimpers, _honest to God whines_ , and Pratt smirks. He doesn't mean to, but his lips curl upward of their own volition, and in an instant Jacob's palm, hot and rough, is on his cheek, guiding their mouths together. Staci grinds down on his thigh, rolling his hips slow. Jacob's fingers briefly thread through his hair, before he pulls back again, breathing hard. Each breath is a groan, a struggle to form words. His hips pumping toward Pratt's hand, Staci shifting in delicious pleasure on his lap counterpoint.

“Hold on, hold on.” Jacob's voice is a litany as he lifts his waist, one hand on Staci’s back. He's shoving the deputy’s jeans down, Staci notes, and in an instant he's in the air. It's a good few seconds before Pratt realizes he's lying across a horribly upholstered couch, legs spread, caught up in his jeans, and _Jacob Seed_ between them. His hands claw through Jacob's hair, eliciting a hiss from between his wind chapped lips.

“Wait I don't have condoms,” Pratt manages to say, and Jacob just looks at him.

“Okay.” It's the simplest answer, and yet it sends full body tremors through him. “Should I stop then?”

“ _God_ , no.”

“You're a goddamn one in a million real Georgia peach, Peaches.” Jacob Seed says, mouth going on and on, just babbling, as he wedges his hands under Pratt's shirt. He lifts it up off Staci’s eager arms, over his head. Pratt is looking at him, breathless, hair a mess. Behind his head, the light shines on Jacob Seed, and he looks like a saint. It's enough to send Pratt's chest tightening up.

“What the hell are you actually talking about?”

Jacob doesn't answer. Instead he's nosing down the line of Pratt's stomach, his vaguely defined abs, breath hot on his skin. “Think you taste sweet? Maybe?” He plants a kiss on the base of Pratt's stomach. He opens his mouth and leaves a rounded red mark there. Staci’s heart skips a beat. Then his fingers close around the narrow ridges of Staci’s hips. Jacob gives it a second, and Pratt watches, arousal peaking, pooling white hot heat in the base of his belly, as he takes his cock into his mouth. It's one short experimental lick first, before he opens his mouth and takes him in. Pratt didn't think he could, but the way Jacob swallows around him, throat opening up, he swears Jacob's done this before. Pratt's mouth falls open, and the sound that escapes him sounds like a wounded animal, helpless and desperate. It's then that Jacob takes hold of his hips, hauling Staci’s legs up and over his shoulders. His free hand is pumping his cock, like this is what got him off, seeing Staci squirming in pleasure.

“ _Fuck,”_ he breathes, twisting to reach Jacob's face again. It's one quick look, a chance meeting of their eyes and Pratt is losing himself. He tosses his head back, hair wild as it falls into his eyes.

Another wild animal cry breaks free of his lips, and he's combing his fingers through his hair when Jacob pulls back with a pop. Jacob's lips are red and swollen, and Pratt is still panting, cock full and aching.

“Why'd you stop?”

Jacob is staring at him. No, he's staring _through_ him. Pratt sits up immediately, fingers digging into the couch cushions. “What's wrong?”

Jacob licks his lips and Staci can see his hand still moving, just on the edge of his vision. Jacob's stroking himself slow, listening to Pratt speak. “That last night. Do you remember?”

Staci’s eyes settle closed. His voice is weak. “Jones never could piece together why you had me duct taped, and not zip tied.”

“Did you… were you ever…”

Staci knows exactly what he's trying to ask. “No. We’re friends. I thought at the end, maybe we could have been more, but hearing _your_ voice in my head at all times put a quick damper on that.”

Jacob makes a choked sound, lifting his hand to his mouth, body clenching inward. He had to've just orgasmed, breathing hard. “Like you said, you missed me.”

“They didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Pratt leans forward, stomach lurching. Jacob reaches for his dog tags again, but catches only air in his loose fingers. Staci’s eyes widen in realization. “Your tags. I-in the plane, they found them, the body was too burnt to--”

It hits him all at once. “You faked your death!”

Jacob ducks his head. “Gotta give credit where credit is due; John’s idea.”

“ _John Seed is still alive_?”

“I gave your friend, the junior deputy, my key. They let me go.”

Pratt's expression twitches and then absolutely _shatters_ . “When I heard you were dead, I was _lost_.”

Jacob stops breathing at that point.

“I couldn't sleep, didn't eat. I was a mess.” Staci is looking into space, unable to even meet his gaze. “They shot your brother.”

“I know.” Jacob's voice drops to a low murmur. “They didn't get John, though.”

At that, Pratt glances up at him. “When I first saw you, I called Jones. They said you were dead and I was going crazy. Can you believe that?”

“You did just tell me you slipped into a depressive spiral after hearing about the plane crash.”

“And Dr. O’Neil.” Pratt supplies.

“What do you _do_ now? I mean, you have a dog and a therapist. How'd that happen?”

“John did most of the wrangling. Had paperwork finished so we could have just vanished if Eden’s Gate went tits up. I…” He opens his hand, then lets it drop back to his knee. “Therapy was a good option. The dog came after. She was a stray, registered her as a support dog. Simple enough.”

Pratt sits back, satisfied with his answers. Jacob closes the difference between them, drawing Pratt into his lap. His hand, coarse and rough, closes around Staci’s erection. Pratt's head falls forward, as he lets out another wounded animal sound, hips working quick.

“Were you always this sensitive?”

Staci doesn't answer; instead, his hand scores up the side of Jacob's worn face, up through his hair, and he's pulling Jacob in to kiss him.


End file.
